Enigma
by Blackrose Kitsune
Summary: Longer summary in profile. In an event that pits the Tentai against each other, and has our demons questioning where their own loyalties lie, is there really room for Kurama's weird, recurring dream, or missing humans with Reikai in pandemonium?
1. I: Startling Accusations

_**Enigma**_

_**---**_

_Chapter I: Startling Accusations_

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_A terrorized shriek cut through the air, shattering the surreal quiet that had settled over the land like a bullet, bringing to light the utter chaos that had befallen the seemingly God forsaken place. And as the lingering echo of the shriek that broke the illusion of normalcy faded into the horizon, it was followed by another, and then another, until the air was filled with the melancholic chorus of crescendoing voices and palpable terror. Then, for just a fraction of a second there was peace — the proverbial eye of the storm — before the sky exploded in a massive ball of red-hot, angry flames that raced across the bared land as fluidly as though the earth was slicked with oil. Black rain; a flurry of heavy ash smoldering as it fell and clung tenaciously to all that it touched, covered everything, blanketing the ground, congesting the air — a thick, noxious miasma that seared the lungs, collapsed the sinuses, suffocated._

_The sky was like mass of molten lava, a sea of angry red that seemed to decimate all that touched the skyline. Wooden structures toppled in the heat, and laid on the ground only moments, before being swallowed by a hungry, gaping mouth of flame. Houses, homes, dwellings, all lay in shambles. Solid structures toppled like matchsticks in a windstorm. The air was thick with the scent of burning pine and Elder trees — the scent of family life and tradition lost to a hellish blaze. But amid the scent of burnt, burning, or smoldering wood, was something far more acrid. Putrid was the word. It clung to everything, raised bile in the back of the villagers' throats, and told of a much greater loss than just wooden dwellings and old-won traditions. Amid the wood and ash and smoke, evident to even the most desensitized nose, hung the scent of burning flesh._

_Villagers scattered like leaves in a hurricane, moving in directions far flung to the winds to escape the blaze and death around them. The lucky ones who had managed to salvage even a few of their homely possessions, or had managed to salvage even their lives, ran to save themselves as they abandoned the elderly and wounded in selfish hopes of seeing a new dawn. Anyone who fell in the rush to escape risked being trampled by the heavy footfalls of frantic humans. As their homes and surroundings collapsed around them one by one, the frenzy deepened, the rush grew more desperate. Stumble and die. Fail to keep up with the crush of bodies and die. The message was clear in their panic. Spare no one and nothing._

_And in the middle of it all stood a little girl wearing a stained, threadbare, and soot streaked night gown and bare feet, clutching a raggedy doll to her narrow chest. Lost in the ebb and flow of scattering villagers, no one paid mind, spared one glance, and hurried by. And as she looked on, her wide, startled eyes reflecting the dancing flames in their crimson depths, a startling contrast to her porcelain-white and delicate face, she crumbled. The doll, a misshapen lump of crudely sewn cotton fiber fell at her feet, forgotten. Her knees hit the dirt and her hands, covered in ash and bearing the scars of second-degree burns, went to her face, hiding her eyes from the destruction around her. And as the world continued to spin around her, forever oblivious to just one more innocent soul tainted, time forever flowing, she let out one piteous scream: a wail of tangible agony and anger; rage and so much unfathomable hatred._

_And the world went dark…_

_---_

A jarring knock echoed through the silence. And though the harsh noise coaxed him into begrudging consciousness, he firmly refused to open his eyes to what he knew would be the cruel, almost fluorescent glow of the white walls of his apartment. So, instead of opening his eyes, which screamed for the release of what would be another sleepless lapse — what with the nightmare being a common occurrence anymore — he counted the droning knocks; they beat in a perfect rhythm.

_One, two, three… One, two, three… One, two—_

Just as he was about to finish off the last of the sequence, a loud crash, muffled from behind his closed bedroom door, disrupted the consistent pattern.

Startled at the sudden noise, he sprang from the bed, almost falling as he flailed wildly for a moment to disentangle himself from his bed sheets. Cursing his own human lack of dexterity, he hurried through the bedroom door. He was careless in leaving the bed unmade, but he could come back to it later, he told himself, moving with the greater ease and grace that newfound consciousness had bestowed upon him.

Standing in the living room, in a slight huff from being moved so quickly in such a short space of time, he faced the triad before him. A slightly bemused smile tugged at his lips as he pondered the state of his appearance, and how awkward it must seem for his unannounced company to see him in such a state. He was wearing a pair of black boxers, which from the slight sheen of the material could be taken to be made of either high quality, and well made cotton, or silk. One of the legs was rumpled; a telltale sign of his fitful sleeping habits, and came up to his mid-thigh, in a crumpled knot. That aside, he stood half-naked before them, his chest and abdomen exposed, and the lighting of the room splaying delicate shadows over the finely toned muscles rippling in his chest as he drew in breath, and his abdomen. A mess of knotted crimson hair splayed over his shoulders, wild and in need of a decent brushing, and the bangs veiled his eyes, both the deepest shade of jade and clouded with false hopes of sleep to come.

He shook his head slightly, perhaps dismissing the thoughts prior and gazed at them as confidently as one could, looking as he did. Then he offered up a tight smile and folded his arms before his chest, his pectoral muscles bunching in protest, and his arms swelling as they folded. He hadn't really been stretching properly lately, and his muscles weren't as smooth for it. He made a mental note to start in on his daily maintenance routine again.

"Well, Gentlemen," he addressed the three men before him, being careful to keep the annoyance from his tone. The door of his apartment lay in toothpick-sized splinters behind them and they hadn't even expressed one shred of remorse over it, or made a motion to offer to replace the forlorn and well-past repair fixture. "What can I do for you this morning?"

The three men, all of whom were robed in the way of only the most informed Reikai officials, glared at him in return. The spite in all of their tiny, black, watery eyes was palatable. For a moment there was nothing but utter silence. Then, the man in the center, a tall and sinewy-looking figure, spoke, his voice deep and gravely:

"Minamino, Shuichi," he nodded at the tousle-haired man before them all, "also known by your aliases: Kurama, or Youko Kurama, the legendary thief of Makai."

He stopped for a moment to extend one hand from within a fold of his robe to withdraw a tightly furled piece of heavy parchment, bearing the trademark wax seal of the high ruler and lord of the Reikai, Lord Enma. Kurama watched the movement curiously, his gaze coming to linger on the parchment curiously.

"That is who you are addressing," he conceded smoothly, his voice suspicious, eyes never once leaving the scroll.

"You are being taken into custody by the Reikai High Court, under orders of King Enma, Lord of Reikai, and Lord Koenma, Junior under lord to his majesty." The man continued, slowly unrolling the scroll and letting it curl as it fell along the length of him, left to dangle in the air.

"Explain," Kurama intoned thinly, his eyes turning downward into a glare.

"On the orders of said Reikai officials, you are being made a warden of the Reikai Defense Force on the grounds that you have been deemed a danger to Ningen society and the realm on a whole."

At this, the gravel-voiced man fell silent and his companion on the left, a small, balding man took up the thread. "You are to be taken into custody by force, as charges against you suggest a threat of violence should you be asked to come willingly. A trail by the Reikai High Court, headed under Lord Enma, has been set for a week from this day, where all charges pending will be examined. Until then, you are to come with us, Sir Minamino."

This whole situation was becoming entirely too bizarre. He was being taken into custody? He had pending charges against him? He was a danger to mortal society? Nothing these curious men in Reikai robes said make any sense and amounted to nothing more than a mess of white noise buzzing in his skull, sending empty thoughts skittering along the inside of his mind in a little jig.

"Excuse me," he asked, hands firmly on his temples suddenly, slender fingers massaging circles around them to ease the unsettling migraine brought on by the utter foolishness of the moment. "But, on what grounds is any of this — this utter nonsense — founded?"

The last of the three, a massive boulder-like man with arms the size of tree trunks spoke at this, and before taking in the man's words Kurama wondered just how it was that he became a top Reikai official, judging that he looked like a mountain troll.

"You are charged," the voice was deep and guttural, barely distinguishable, "with the recent slaughtering of six mortals living in the Prefectural area of your residence. One Takaharu, Moriko, one Nobuhiko, Arikito, one—"

"What?" He was bewildered. Who on earth were these people, and why was he being charged with their supposed slaughter? But before he could be graced with an answer, before he so much as had time to blink, much less react, the distinctive whoosh of an air stream overtook his hearing.

A blink of stars before his stunned emerald eyes later, and to the accompaniment of an overwhelming throb in his left temple, a wave of nausea at the attack overcame him and darkness fell over his eyes, sending him spiraling into an abyss of nothingness…

…And the undisturbed flow of unconsciousness he had so longed for earlier…

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**_Author's Ramblings:_**

**First And Foremost: Yu Yu Hakusho And Al****l Associated Characters Are Sole Property Of Togashi Yoshihiro, FUNimation, Shonen Jump Magazine, And All Other Thrid Parties That Are NOT Me. (**_No matter how much I want it to be._

**Now...** I know it's been QUITE a while since any of you have heard anything of me. But, I do live. And this is the fruit of my labor. Honestly, this was supposed to have taken a backseat in creation to **_Acceptance_**, my other fic that I was supposed to start. But, it already has a Doujinshi following its story in the works, so that's enough for now. That's why **_Enigma_** came into being. Also, because it's what my muse decided she wanted me to focus on. Therefore, I am. Live with it. If you want any information on **_Acceptance_**, or would like to see the beginnings of the doujinshi that I intend to model the actual story off of, please send me an e-mail or PM via this website.

Also, if you've looked over to my profile, you may have noticed I say this is a collaborative effort between Dillutional Inu, and I. It is. She gave me the prod I needed to get the start of this chapter going and the rest of it just sort of flowed out. Later chapters should have more of her involvement than this one did. If you're reading this, sorry Dillio-chan!! Aishiteru-ni??

On to some advertising: She and I also wrote **_Le Crackfic of DOOOOOM_**, which hasn't gotten a whole lot of love. It's sort of a spoof, comparted to our other writing individually, but that's done on purpose. Believe me. It's the first, last, and only of its kind from us. That's a promise. So, give it some love, if you like.

As for this story: Yes, it's going to be multi-chaptered. There is a good possibility that there will some mature content later on. Some violence, probably nothing too graphic, and eventual apparent shonen-ai into possible yaoi. Possibly as graphic as the M rating will allow. It all depends on the following this fic gets, and what kind of following (that is, what kind of fans) this fic gets. Warnings will be posted on chapter headers to warn against anything controversial. For now, the rating will be teen. It may go up.

As always, please feel more than welcome to leave your name at the door with an honest opinion intact. I won't be offended by anything, but I do ask that you leave me some concrit that consists of more than just, "it sux." Please?

Blackrose


	2. II: The Potency of Grief

_Chapter II: The Potency of Grief_

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He wakes to the angry writhing of his stomach and a violent surge of nausea that rolls over him like an ocean wave cresting at shore as he gradually regains consciousness. Sharp daggers of pain explode in his temple as he shifts and he has to bite down on his tongue to keep from crying out in anguish. He can feel delicate tissue rend as his teeth dig into the organ, and a pulse of hot pain sweeps over him, turning his stomach. The bitter, metallic taste of blood on his tongue — as a result of his bid to keep silent — is enough to make him wretch. At the thought alone his stomach lurches in an unpleasant swoop, and on instinct he pushes himself over onto his other side just in time to meet with the hot, acidic taste of vomit in the back of his throat. He chokes at the foul taste, and struggling to breath, scrambles shakily to his hands and knees to heave.

After what seems an eternity, and after unceremoniously emptying his stomach onto the roughed stone floor before him, he is able to shift himself into a sitting position. Leaning wearily against the wall — more stone, he guesses, judging by its cool, damp feel, and rough texture — he manages to regain some of his composure. He feels horribly feverish, and the dull thrum of a headache pounding diligently behind his eyes only promises another spell of nausea, but he is alive.

_That must count for something,_ he muses dryly, bringing the back of his hand to his mouth to wipe at the trail of congealing blood that had slowly covered his lips.

The silence that falls around him is almost suffocating. It is thick; undisturbed except for the harsh noises made from his ragged inhalations and exhalations of breath. It would be peaceful if it wasn't so eerie, he rationalizes.

"Where on earth am I?" he voices through gritted teeth as another wave of nausea overcomes him and he attempts to open his eyes to the dismal surroundings he is certain he will find.

And just as suddenly as the voiced thought came to him, a blur of white-washed memories flood back into his clouded mind in a crush of mismatched colors and eclectic noise: A crashing noise, his apartment door laying like a broken matchstick house on the floor, dirtying his living room and the adjoining, exiting hallway, and the three curious men dressed in Reikai garb that had confronted him with an arrest warrant with charges pending for murdering six ningens that he had never had so much as anything to do with…

The thought alone makes him shake his head at the utter foolishness of the insinuation. When shaking his head only worsens the pain in his skull, he stops. And at the jarring throb in his temple he stops to bring his hand to the place, only to wince as his fingers brush the tender mass, a swollen and tender welt, and a mess of blood-caked, vermillion hair matted to the side of his face. He forces himself to take in a deep breath. Not his best idea. The air is musty, thick with dust, and carries the rank perfume of decay. Again, he wretches.

"Well, well, well…" The words echo through the stillness, bouncing off of the stone walls to coalesce into the silence. Struggling to regroup himself from his second bout of gut-wrenching heaves, Kurama blinks open his eyes in time to watch a shadowy figure approach as more words ring through the darkness. "So, the murderer _**is**_ alive, then?"

"So it seems," he mutters in reply. Though the tone is snide, the words come out slurred, thick around the bile and lingering taste of vomit lining his mouth. He spits; a mixture of bile and bloody vomit. "Now tell me," he wipes his mouth and staggers drunkenly to his feet, "What is the meaning of this?"

A harsh laugh follows his words, a bark — an animal-like sound. And for a moment, silence is the only answer to grace the question. Then slowly, from the depths of the impenetrable darkness cloaking the enclosure around him and the bodiless speaker, loud, uneven footsteps announce someone's — or, he hates to think _something's_ — arrival.

"The meaning? You know the meaning. You know why you're here, murderer." There is spite in each raspy syllable, palatable loathing. And as the speaker slips into Kurama's field of vision, an apparent disgusted look graces the _thing's_ — there is no other word for it — face.

The being is not human, that much is all too apparent, Kurama notes as he takes in the green skin, dry and sloughing in places, which hangs in folds from its body like rags and second-hand clothing more than a few sizes too large. Its eyes are small beads of yellow, with the milky-white sheen of a cataract obscuring one of them, and both are nearly lost beneath folds of lagging flesh. It wears something barely passable for clothing; a stained and tattered loin cloth hangs from its hips, a piteous waste of fabric. And to him — it appears to be a _him_, at least — clings the foul stench of urine and feces. The sight alone is enough to make Kurama heave, and the smell, pungent and horrible, is enough to raise the bile in the back of his throat in the promise of another wave of nausea.

"You mean to tell me," Kurama begins tightly, grinding out the words, "that I am being held captive? A prisoner in Reikai?" He stares disbelievingly at the creature before him, partially obscured by darkness, partially by the bars that seemed to materialize between them; a telltale indication of his separation from the rest of the world.

"You do have a brain, then," wheezes out the creature in a cackling laugh. "Too bad you're just now using it, though."

"What are you saying?" Kurama shakes his head, not understanding. And between the grating pain in his skull as he moves it and the nausea welling in his gut, pell-mell thoughts skitter across his mind: Why is he here? Why is he being held captive in some of the worst prison conditions Reikai in all its splendor and magnitude has to offer?

"Those poor ningens, boy. What do you think I'm saying?" the creature quips back, his voice growing angry, annoyed at his captive's ignorance.

"False allegations," Kurama spits back sharply, getting readily tired of being accused of the murder of these supposed six mortals. "Why do you keep saying I murdered these people? Tell me." Venom literally oozes from each syllable.

"Because Reikai surveillance _**saw**_ you, boy. Enma isn't stupid; he knows the last month unhinged you. You've been being watched this whole time." The creature shakes his scabbed head and graces Kurama with another scathing look. "Good thing, I guess."

_The last month unhinged you…_

The words bounce across the vastness of his skull, eschewing his thoughts and ushering in a static fit of white noise to fill the void. It takes a moment for the creature's statement to register; for the words to form a concrete, valid meaning.

His knees go weak and any of the strength he had regained from his bout of heaving flees his body in a rush. Before he is aware of it his knees are stinging and his fists have pounded into the stone floor supporting his crumbling form. Shakes wrack his body, violent tremors starting up from his fingertips and vibrating over his whole drawn in form. His voice is loud — louder than the buzzing in his ears, that damnable static that drowns out his own thoughts — and the tremor is noticeable there too, as he speaks:

_"Unhinged… No…_"

There is a pause, then a shaky intake of breath and an exhalation in quick succession. His fingers clench against the stone, groping to cling to everything, but finding nothing. But he seems unaware to the mindless groping, his fingertips bruising in their harried attempts to find something to hold on to.

The shaking in uncontrollable now, his vision blurs and he cannot see clearly before him. The creature is swimming in front of his eyes, laughing. The harsh sound is loud and wretched above the noise screaming in his own head.

"_I am not __**unhinged**_" A strangled laugh falls from his lips, and even to his own ears his voice sounds distant, unfamiliar.

His blood is on fire, searing through his veins. The pain in his head is nothing compared to this — the feeling of daggers sheering through his veins, lancing them open and bleeding him out from the inside. Each angry palpation of his heart is exaggerated, his chest exploding with each new pulse and his ribs feel ready to burst through him. His skin is tingling, that stage where everything is cold to the point of burning and just before numbness lays claim to the pins and needles of poor circulation.

The buzzing in his head is unbearable but he cannot find his voice to scream above the storm raging inside him.

_"No… I am… not… unhinged…"_ he clenches out, voice strangled. Blood drips to the floor, but his eyes are beyond seeing, and his lips are numb. He does not feel the tissue rend, takes no notice of the blood on the stones before him.

_Shiori is smiling, laughing at something, and Hatanaka is sitting beside her in the next seat. He isn't there, but somehow he knows she's smiling. She was always smiling, always laughing about something. It is no more than a puddle jumper — a commercial plane — so Shuuichi is sitting in the row behind them. He isn't there but he knows this fact, given that he had given the plane tickets to his family. It wasn't much, just tickets to a flight to Sapporo to enjoy the natural springs. A gift for Shiori and Hatanaka's first wedding anniversary. He hadn't gone._

_He should have._

_An explosion rocks the plane and a ball of red heat envelopes the back compartments. The other passengers' happily-expectant looks turn to terror. The smile flickers from Shiori's face, turning into a stunned look and then…_

_It goes black._

_And all that's left is the afterimage of her smiling face plastered to the insides of his eyelids…_

And he screams as the static crescendos in his skull and all at once the pain, the numbness, every last fleeting emotion and non-emotion is gone leaving only the humming silence in its wake.

After a moment of silence, as the buzzing dies down inside of him and feeling slowly floods back into his extremities, he unclenches his eyes only to find himself staring at the pinpricks of blood littering the floor beneath him. Bewildered, he shakes his head to clear his mind, because the silence is suddenly overpowering and nothing makes sense, and a spray of silver hair whips around him, cascading into his face.

"Wh-what on Earth?" There is shock in the creature's startled voice, and just enough fear to send a ripple of pleasure chasing down Kurama's bowed spine. The sound is sharp, ringing in his ears and his senses are ablaze; he isn't bothered with why.

"I'm not unhinged, you blathering fool." A roll of deep laughter, a drastic change from his usual tenor, falls from his lips and a delicately evil smile curls them upwards. He doesn't bother looking at the creature, isn't sure he should grace the creature with a look, just keeps his head bowed. A silken waterfall of silver hair ripples around him as his shoulders rise in a chorus of deep, melancholic laughs and he finishes the thought: "I'm _grieving_."

"This is why we've been keeping you under surveillance, Kurama." The familiar tone glides in on the stale air and is followed by the gentle pit-pat of soled footsteps.

He looks up just in time to see the man from which the words came glide into the room. The man is familiar — almost to an annoying degree, and the expression on his face is not so unfamiliar, either. A deep growl reverberates in the back of his throat, a dull sort of hum that drones through the enclosure.

"Koenma," is his greeting, accompanied by a sharp, piercing glare.

The said figure nods, a mess of auburn hair bobbing around his eyes as he acknowledges the greeting. He replies smoothly, "Kurama," with another curt nod. "Or should I say _Youko_?"

* * *

**_Author's Ramblings:_** Okay, here is the second chapter. Don't you just love this recent, new update speed? Ah, well. If any of you noticed, this chapter sort of changed tenses on you. The first chapter is all written along the lines of "he said," as in, past tense. This chapter I went for "he says," as in, present tense. I did this not to confuse you guys - the readers and potential reviewers - but rather, I did it because I'd like to hear from you guys which tense you think seems to flow better for the progression of this story. Personally, I say present. But that's just me. Opinions? And just to clear this up, depending on the responese to the tense question, I will either change the first to match the second, or vice-versa so that everything ends up agreeing before we go into chapter III. Also, this is sort of a filler chapter I threw in to do this little tense test. It was supposed to go into exactly why he's being charged and all that fun stuff where he gets to stand off against monsieur Koenma, but alas, you'll have to wait for chapter III for that. For now, live with the word fluff, or don't. The choice is solely yours. But, either way, and as always, please leave your names at the door, honest opinions intact. Please?

**_Aside_**: I am looking for another BETA-reader, or two, as I'd like to get more than just Dillio's opinion on how things should go. If anyone is willing to help, send along a resume to my email, eh?

Blackrose


	3. III: Foot in Mouth Encounter

_Chapter III: Foot-in-Mouth Encounter_

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"_Koenma." _The name is a venomous hiss as it slips through clenched teeth, and his lips pull back in a snarl as the said entity's gentle footfalls bring him closer into the dank enclosure.

The said demi-Godling nods in a listless, offhand sort of manner at being addressed in such a murderous way, and waves the pitiful creature heretofore guarding the cell away with a casual wave of his hand before turning his attention to his captive.

"Youko," he addresses the man behind bars lightly, nodding; as though the transformation he had just witnessed had fazed him not at all. "You'll excuse me, but I'm more comfortable calling you Kurama."

"What is the meaning of this, Koenma?" His tone is silky, calm, but an undercurrent of promised violence hums just under its surface.

The creature notices.

"Eh, Lord Koenma, are you sure you want me to go? He seems… dangerous," the creature comments uneasily, gulping audibly as he backtracks into the dim enclosure a few paces. "Maybe… maybe I should stay?"

"No, no." Koenma waves his hand again, just as impatiently, and with such nonchalance as he assures, quite sure of the words, "Go on, he won't harm me," without gracing the creature a second glance.

"Ye-yes of course, Lord Ko-Koenma," the creature manages to stutter in a sickly, anxious voice that is full of relief. It almost falls over its too-large feet as it retreats quite hurriedly, and with a sloppy bow towards his Ruler, as far from him as possible.

"Sure about that, are you?" Youko questions idly, unable to keep the amusement from his voice as his eyes flick away from the creature to linger again on the Young Under-ruler.

Suddenly, he is on his feet and lunging towards the bars holding him prisoner in his miserable stone cubicle. Delicate, pale fingers close around the bars of the cell door that hold him captive and clench around them. The bars are grimy and a layer of filth casts itself around his palms as they clench against the iron. A small smirk graces his lips as he feels the cool metal in his grasp beneath the unsightly filth of the prison cell. One good pulse of aura and one good, concentrated contraction of his fingers, and the metal will splinter in his fingers, disintegrate to ash, in a matter of mere seconds. This knowledge spreads a thin, menacing smile across his face that curls up ever-so-slightly as he lets a stream of youki flow into his hands. His eyes, gone amber in the transformation, narrow as they regard the young prince with contempt, as he waits for the cold steel in his hands to crumble.

A moment later, a dagger of heat lances through his hands and he jumps back, startled, a low, pained hiss pressing out of his lips in surprise. "_What the hell?"_ He snarls angrily, glaring down at his hands, the skin of his palms red and blistering where they had been in contact with the cell bars.

A delicate laugh rolls off of Koenma's lips as he answers the previously unanswered question with a deliberate, "Yes, I'm quite sure you won't harm me, Kurama."

"_Bastard,"_ is the snarled reply, as golden eyes flash murderously, narrowing even further in a showing of barely contained rage.

"It would be more beneficial to the both of us if you managed to check your anger, Kurama," the young God suggests as he continues to close the distance between himself and the enraged Spirit Fox that his Realm, in all its splendor, now entertained as a wanted murderer.

A harsh laugh follows his words, mirth practically ringing through him as he replies with the merest hint of venom, "And how would that benefit _me_, Koenma? I'm locked up, held under false accusations. If you want to _hold_ me, at least let me _earn _my imprisonment."

Koenma crosses his arms before his chest, a heavy sigh falling from his lips, and shakes head; a slow, tired movement that leaves his bangs swishing across his forehead for several seconds after he has stilled. His eyes are somber, weary, as they regard the man standing mere feet before him, and while they are not wholly unkind, Kurama does not like the look.

"_What?" _The question is sharp and the tone thoroughly agitated; his silky, vulpine tail ticks in response to the emotion and mentally, he curses the appendage that now, after so many years, he is powerless to control, and that gives away his emotions only too clearly, despite what his normally blank face would show otherwise.

The ticking of the mentioned appendage does not go unnoticed, and Koenma lets out a low chuckle as he remarks, ever the wit, "You're mad at me."

"Aren't you the Genius," Youko snaps back, a hardened edge to the words — an edge so sharp that Koenma actually recoils slightly at them — that sends a ripple of pleasure chasing down his spine, momentarily stilling his twitching tail, as he takes in, with sadistic joy, the effect he has on his accuser.

"You're exuding surprisingly little _youki_ for all the lethal intent and promised violence that hums under your skin," Koenma observes slowly, having backpedaled a few feet and taking a steadying breath of the stale dungeon air.

"I don't need my Energy to be dangerous, Koenma," Youko replies silkily, pausing in his response to lick delicately over one of his burnt palms, before adding, "Anger alone is perfect fuel for _my_ fire, and thanks to you and your minions, my supply of it is endless — you've really _pissed me off_."

"Then, rather than extend to you an apology for the abysmal conditions of your entrapment, as I was planning to do, Kurama—" Koenma begins pointedly, shaking his head in a patronizing, sorry sort of way as he turns from the cell and begins a slow retreat from the dungeon-like enclosure, "—I'll just say I'm glad, then, that your holding cell can at least keep your Energy sealed, and as such, at least a part of what makes you such a threat to everyone."

"I haven't done any of what you've accused, Koenma," is the deep-in-the-throat growl that chases the demi-Godling's retreating footfalls as angry fists clench around the bars of his cell again.

"Surveillance saw you, Kurama," Koenma throws back over his shoulder tiredly, with a piteous half-glance in the Fox's direction. "And whether I believed the footage or not when I saw it, from what I've witnessed _today, from what you've so blatantly made obvious to me, I'd be a fool to let you out before the trail, regardless of the standing accusations."_

_And with those words hanging in the air, heavy echoes left to bounce around the stone enclosure to taunt its lone prisoner, Koenma disappears._

_---_

_

* * *

_**Standard Disclaimer**: YYH and all associated characters/plots are sole property of Yoshihiro Togashi. FUNimation, VIZ media and all other parties with right to the title. These entities to not include me and I make no money from these writings; please don't sue.

**Author's Ramblings**: Title of the chapter was inspired by what I thought was the vaguely ironic ending. That is, if Youko maybe had kept his mouth shut and not flaunted the fact that he was perfectly capable of hurting someone, he _might_ have gotten out of his dank, dungeon prison cell. Also, his dirty mouth. I feel like angry Youko = potty mouth, which probably didn't help him, either.

More than that, this chapter was originally supposed to be significantly longer, including a visit from Hiei. But I felt after writing as much as I had (which really, isn't all that much, I know), that because it had been so long since I'd written anything for this story, that I wanted to keep this fairly short and see how it flowed, before I got more lengthy again. As a result, this turned into a sort of semi-humorous (I think) filler chapter.

Please let me know what you think. There is a lot that displeases me about this chapter, but your honest opinions, be they critique, rant, ConCrit, or whatever else, regarding plot, characterization, and anything else constructive regarding writing style or the story, really help. So leave them at the door with your name, ne?

Blackrose


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